


Pick Up Lines and Broom Closets

by D20Owlbear



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Corny Pickup Lines, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley.exe has stopped working, Idiots in Love, M/M, Other, PWP, Pretending to Not Know Each Other, Rated E for Pickup Lines, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), getting picked up, moron4moron, pickup line november, preestablished relationship, sex in a broom closet, supply closet whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 19:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21287099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: Aziraphale decides it’ll be fun to be picked up in a pub by a stranger. Crowley obliges. He is also an idiot. Aziraphale loves him deeply.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 276
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love, Chaotic Omens: The Fallout of a Big Bang





	Pick Up Lines and Broom Closets

Aziraphale hummed to himself as he sipped at a good cup of Lady Grey tea, the smell of it was divine in the early morning chill. He wiggled a bit where he sat when Crowley slumped onto the loveseat next to him, Crowley's gangly legs nearly upset the teapot, and a quick snap of Aziraphale’s fingers made sure it didn’t spill. Crowley curled up around Aziraphale and poured himself in that boneless, snakey way of his halfway into the angel’s lap. He was still dressed in his merino wool sleeping set, rumpled and fresh from still-warm sheets. Aziraphale continued to hum and wrapped an arm around Crowley’s shoulders, smiling as the demon fall into a doze, pressed against his chest — their slow hearts beating in time with little more than clothing and ribcages between them. A not insurmountable distance, not after 6,000 and some odd years.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale murmured after a couple of hours of being laid on - occasionally setting down the cup of tea to refill it or turning from the book in his other hand to press a kiss to the demon’s temple and card fingers through soft, red hair.

“Mhmgf?” Crowley muttered sleepily against Aziraphale’s chest.

“What do you say to going out tonight? There’s a chippy nearby that seems new, haven’t been there yet before.” He scratched at the base of Crowley’s skull and smiled a self-satisfied thing when Crowley fell even more boneless than before, melting in his lap.

“Mhm, wh’ever ya say, ‘ngel.” Aziraphale kept at it and returned to his book, shifting so he could lay it in his lap atop Crowley’s knees and turn pages with one hand while still keeping Crowley pressed up against him. He alternated between gentle pets and indulgent head-scratching until he’d finished his book.

Some hours later the comfortable silence of the bookshop was thoroughly ruined by Aziraphale's cheerful, grinning, “Up and at ‘em!” He had the audacity to beam after waking Crowley rather rudely by ceasing all forms of enjoyable, affectionate touching. Crowley groaned and pressed his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck with a pout that quickly turned into a disgustingly fond smile at the feeling of Aziraphale’s silent laughter shaking the shoulders underneath him.

“You know, I’ve never gotten one of those ‘pickup lines’ before.” Aziraphale said aloud, apropos of nothing. Crowley reeled back in abject surprise and held Aziraphale at arm’s length — the smile on the angel’s face was absolutely angelic, of course, and obviously pleased with himself at Crowley’s reaction, the bastard.

“What the fuck, Angel?” Crowley spat, confused beyond measure at the non sequitur and how the Hell that came up, feeling entirely too awake for- he looked around at the old grandfather clock across the room- 2 in the afternoon.

“Language, Crowley.” Aziraphale looked even smugger at that and tapped the end of Crowley’s nose in admonishment. “And you heard me. I’ve never been ‘picked up’ before.”

“ _ I’ll _ pick  _ you _ up,” Crowley muttered mockingly, in the same way schoolchildren said things like  _ your mom _ or  _ your face _ as insults, and rolled his eyes as he half-fell out of Aziraphale’s lap. He steadied himself, looking not unlike a surfer just getting their balance at the top of a wave, except the floor wasn’t moving under him and he wasn’t floating on a waxed board.

“Oh, splendid!” Aziraphale wiggled and clapped his hands together in obvious delight, “Tonight, won’t you?”

“Wha- shhsz-” Crowley said, tripping over his tongue rather than his feet this time, “What?”

“You’ll pick me up! At the chippy. It’s a pub too, so it’ll be perfect. I’ll meet you there, in a few hours. You best go off and change, there’s a love.” Aziraphale stood and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s cheek, who still had no idea what was happening, and whirled off into the bookshop proper to pretend to open it for a bit, just to further confuse anyone about what the hours of the shop might be.

* * *

It was nearly 5 hours later, there was a cold breeze about and people walking around Soho pulled their coats tighter, expecting rain or possibly snow. A few people started in surprise when a sleek Bentley pulled up in front of a moderately busy chip shop in Soho. An even sleeker man stepped out of it and drew a few stares. He was dressed in all black except for the dark charcoal heather shirt, cut low in the neckline and sitting snug underneath black vest and blazer, and the thin metal weave scarf with tassels layered atop a thick silver chain necklace. The ensemble was paired with tight, black trousers that looked a bit like they’d been airbrushed on, black snakeskin boots with red underneath, and all of it was topped off with dark, blinkered sunglasses that would have made a lot more sense to be wearing if the sun had still been up at all. 

He swaggered into the chippy and up to the bar of the pub, his keys disappearing into an inner jacket pocket. He threw a cool mock-salute with two fingers to a couple of the patrons who looked his way and they vaguely wondered what he was doing here, dressed like he’d sauntered off some modern, grunge-but-rich catwalk. He found a stool open at the bar, next to a soft looking chap wearing well-kept but well-worn clothing. The kind of well-worn that looked impossibly soft and fitted exactly to the one wearing it - and all of it tied up with a tartan bowtie, of all things. His hair was fluffy like the down from a dove, a soft off-white that matched with his overall look quite well. 

“Hello,” The man smiled brightly at him, not the sort of smile that seemed too personal or too desperate for company, just kind and comforting. The kind of smile you expected to see on an old friend’s face after getting back in touch after a couple of years, only to find that nothing had changed and you could pick things up right where you left off, only to find you’d both changed for the better and left feeling a sense of mystic wonder with how glad you were they were good and doing just fine in their life. 

“Hello…” The man in black greeted him warily with a nod, eyes squinting against the brightness of the friendly smile. He turned to the man behind the bar and ordered a beer,  _ whatever you think’s good on tap _ , and leaned forward against the bar, arms crossed and shoulders tensed against his weight. His lean form was on display and he smirked a bit at the prickle of a stare over skin starting at his neck and sweeping down his side to end on his legs curled beneath him - just a hair too tall for the stool. He glanced out of the corner of his eyes, grateful for the pinprick holes in the blinders that allowed him to see out with some adjusting. The man sitting next to him seemed blind to the fact he was being watched in return, until suddenly he looked up and made eye contact. 

(Even through the glasses Crowley felt stripped bare and seen for a split second. His heart stopped and his breath caught and his stomach fell through his seat to the floor in that second. Then started up again as if nothing had happened, as if his heart and lungs hadn’t been so rude as to give him away like that.)

“Say,” he started slyly, angling his body to face the man beside him, grin sharp as a knife and smugly pleased as he could make it, “do you have a name, or can I call you mine?” The silence between them was deafening as the man dressed in cream, beige and tartan opened his mouth and shut it a few times, evidently searching for words. Crowley, never one to give up when he ought to, brought one of his hands up under his chin and leaned into the other man’s space — not enough to be annoying, but certainly enough to make his intentions clear. 

“If you don’t like that one, how about ‘I’m sure you're busy today, but can you add me to your to-do list’?” Crowley purred, tilting his head down just so to look over the rims of his sunglasses. He licked his lips in a way that was meant to seem innocent, but would still draw heated looks to his lips and then, ideally, down the length of his jaw and neck to his collarbones. 

“I’m Aziraphale,” the man beside him breathed, eyes darting down the exact path Crowley had wanted them to, “and I suppose I could.” The rest of him seemed to catch up to his words all at once and Aziraphale swallowed, turning back to the fish and chips in front of him. The bartender set down a pint and Crowley handed over his card to keep a tab open.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He murmured, leaning back smoothly in order to take a sip of the beer. Not bad, not the best he’d had, but not bad for some hole in the wall pub and chip shop.

“Best not, alcohol is bad for my legs.” Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Is that so? Do they sweat?” His mouth went dry at the thought of licking up beads of perspiration from inside those lush thighs and burying himself between them. He shifted a little in his seat to alleviate some of the slowly growing pressure in his jeans, thankful for the cover of the counter.

“No, they spread,” Aziraphale replied boldly, popping an entire hand-cut chip into his mouth and licking the tip of his finger. His smile turned sly and coy and Crowley’s lips parted as he choked on his drink and failed entirely at recovering any cool points he’d stored up to this point.

“O-oh. Well then.” Crowley cleared his throat and attempted to be suave again as Crowley.exe booted up from its previous, devastating crash. “Are you sure you’re not already drunk? If not, feel free to put anything on my tab...” he huffed, still blinking wide eyes at the sheer, surprising audacity of Aziraphale flirting back at him, and  _ better _ at that!

“I certainly might be, dear boy,” Aziraphale smiled again, the full force of his affection crashed over Crowley. So what else was there left to do except drown in the face of the relentless tide of Aziraphale’s love? What could he do to stay afloat in that whitewater rush of boundless affection? For him. For everyone. People, and demons too, surely, were incapable of weathering Love Itself . It felt like some sort of divine revelation, like something that should have shaken him to his core - but instead, it engulfed him, wound around his heart and lungs like twine and stole his breath away, and settled him neatly into his body, into the moment. Happy to give his devotion, because he had been loved first, with the ferocity of lions and the limitless comfort of God.

“Perhaps you’d like to do something about it.” Crowley.exe crashed again, and then burned a bit just for good measure. 

“Y-yeah, think I might.” 

“You will?”

“Sure, Angel.” Crowley croaked and swallowed, downing the rest of his beer like a champ, holding his breath and throwing his head back so the alcohol could slide directly down his throat in one fell swoop, draining the nearly-full pint in a few seconds flat. He licked his lips and cast a glance over at Aziraphale, raking his eyes up his body and meeting eyes dark as a stormy sea. Something flashed behind them, ill-hidden desire.

Crowley stood and offered his hand to Aziraphale, catching the eye of the bartender and motioning to put it all on his card, before promptly being distracted by the touch of Aziraphale’s warm palm over his own, curling to grip his hand firmly in a way that made his knees weak. 

“ ‘Szat so,” he hummed rights still caught on Aziraphale's coy invitation, head swirling with heady desire, lust pooling in his belly at the soft, straining curves of Aziraphale’s form. He might have stumbled if not for the grounding feeling of being pulled along by the strong grip he was imagining elsewhere. He was not drunk yet, but the beer might hit him sometime soon and make the whole experience just that much more enjoyable.

Aziraphale pulled him through the pub, to somewhere in the back by the side exit. It was a bit more dimly lit with none of the streetlights from outside pouring through any small windows here. The angel snapped his fingers and a certain sort of heaviness layered the air around them, a veil against being disturbed. Crowley groaned deep in his throat. Guess they weren’t going to make it back to the bookshop after all.

“Didn’t think you’d be the type to fall for a pick up line. But it must be my lucky day, since it seems the alphabet got rearranged to put U and I together.” Crowley purred, still pulling out the pick up lines with a lusty grin. Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath and pulled Crowley into a bruising kiss, pushing Aziraphale’s heated whisper of ‘ _ You are such an idiot’ _ quickly out of Crowley's mind.

Crowley pulled back a little and giggled, high on the reward chemicals flooding his corporeal form. “Is it hot in here or is it just you?” he asked. There was a moment between his lopsided grin and Aziraphale pushing him against the wall, and then they were stumbling through the door into a miraculously spacious supply closet. He could have sworn he heard Aziraphale hiss out a  _ fuck _ \- couldn’t have, his angel doesn’t curse… Anyway, he had much better things to be thinking of.

Aziraphale backed Crowley's stumbling feet up until he hit metal shelving and fell willingly to his knees in front of Aziraphale. He looked up with another smug smirk as he licked his lips hungrily, “Is that a mirror in your pocket? Cause I can see myself in your pants!” Aziraphale groaned again, his hands moving to tangle his fingers into Crowley’s hair, and Crowley pressed his face forward against the bulge in the trousers before him, hot breath seeping through tweed pants as he placed his hands on Aziraphale’s hips. The drink was kicking in, just a bit, just enough to make him fumble a bit with the zipper in his teeth. He hissed to himself and curled his tongue around the pull to draw it down, and then popped the button through its hole. He groaned and let his forehead fall against Aziraphale’s stomach when he saw the buttons still done up on the angel’s underpants, straight out of a 1956 clothing catalogue. 

“Angel!” he whined, looking up over his glasses that had begun to slip down his nose, drawing a breathy chuckle from the man above him.

“Oh fine, you hooligan,” Aziraphale murmured fondly, reaching down between them to curl his fingers around Crowley’s chin, his thumb slipping between soft lips, as his other hand made quick work of the buttons, freeing himself for Crowley’s perusal. The serpentine eyes were blown wide and yellow, his lips parted in anticipation. His tongue flicked against the pad of Aziraphale’s finger, mouth watering already at the thought of having him down his throat and stretching his lips.

“ _ Angel _ ,” he breathed, a keening whisper, and was rewarded with Aziraphale’s hands curling themselves into his hair once more. “Heaven  _ yes! _ ” Crowley moaned wantonly, his own hands moved to Aziraphale’s backside and pulled him forward as he wrapped his tongue around the head of his angel’s cock. Crowley quickly swallowed him whole, pressing his head down the length until he felt it in the back of his throat and his nose was pressed into ash blond curls. He moaned again around the hard flesh in his mouth, causing Azirapahle to tighten hands into fists in his hair and buck his hips ineffectually, rocking Crowley’s entire body. Crowley’s throat vibrated in another moan as a slow line of saliva fell from his lips down his chin, and one of his hands slid down Aziraphale’s leg until it was low enough to palm at himself through his tight jeans.

Crowley rocked his hips against his hand as he bobbed his head over Aziraphale, forked tongue tip flicking across the slit to lap up every drop of precum each time his lips stretched to pass over the glans, swollen with arousal. The grip in his hair tightened until Aziraphale was the one moving Crowley’s head, pulling him back and forth, dragging him along his prick while Crowley drooled over it. He used his tongue in clever ways as best he could, though his head was decidedly empty of anything other than pulling whatever moans and noises he could out of Aziraphale.

Soon Aziraphale pulled Crowley off him entirely and drew him up to standing by his hair, though the taller man happily followed, pleased to be the reason Aziraphale’s eyes were nearly black the pupils were so dilated. The angel’s entire aura was drenched with his appetence. Crowley grinned widely, looking exactly like the besotted fool he was and entirely uncaring of his own appearance or even the flush that crawled up his neck to color his cheeks when Aziraphale began praising him.

“My lovely boy,” Aziraphale crooned, his hands working on Crowley’s belt for a few moments before becoming annoyed at it enough to snap his trousers and underwear off his legs entirely and somewhere across the room and simultaneously stretch his arse and slick him up, “My dear Crowley, how wonderful you are for me. So good, you feel so good around me, always.”

Crowley made a wilting sound, unintelligibly comprised of consonants, forced out of his rubbed-raw throat. He fell to Aziraphale’s feet as if in prayer, knocked physically off balance by the filthy compliments spilling from Aziraphale’s pristine mouth. Aziraphale caught him by the shoulders and lowered him to the ground, spreading his legs wide and settling behind him. His knees settled between Crowley’s thighs and he pulled Crowley closer with his hands wrapped around the jut of his hips until the head of his cock was pressed firmly against Crowley’s arse, leaking with lube.

“Fuck, Angel! Fuck  _ me! _ ” Crowley hissed, trying to gain enough leverage to press himself down on Aziraphale’s cock, to no avail. The angel  _ tsk _ ed his tongue against the back of his teeth, and then dragged him devastating inch by inch, slow as a glacier grows, onto his length.

“F _ uuuck! _ ” Crowley moaned loudly, arching up as his hands gripped Aziraphale’s arms. His nails were like claws digging into the soft undersides of the angel’s wrists, desperate for something to hold onto to ground himself. They pinned each other down, in the back of a pub in a supply closet, and breathed deeply of one another. The scent of sex was heavy in the air, turning the two of them delirious with desire. Aziraphale groaned in the back of his throat as soon as their hips met, a sound from deep in his chest that made the whole of him vibrate as he tried to bite it back. Crowley felt it down to his toes, ragged breath stolen from him in ecstasy.

“Move, bless you,” The demon rolled his hips, digging his heels into the backs of Aziraphale’s thighs, and forced one of his hands to uncurl from around Aziraphale’s wrists, bringing it up to his mouth to lick it wet. He wrapped it around himself and frantically pulled at his own arousal as he clenched and unclenched around Aziraphale. The angel moaned again, spine curling until his forehead was pressed heavy against Crowley’s shoulder and finally, fucking bloody finally, he began to move. 

The moved in unison, as best they could with Crowley pinned as he was and Aziraphale overcome as he was. It was sloppy and it was messy and it was  _ perfectly good _ . Aziraphale moved within Crowley and stirred up his insides until he couldn’t tell which directions were up or down. All he could do was hold on tightly for the ride as he was fucked into hard enough that he ended up fucking his hand more than his hand moved up and down his prick like he’d meant to. 

Of course Crowley wouldn't last, not with the way Aziraphale knew his body. Aziraphale eventually wrapped one of his hands around Crowley's, tightening his grip, and keeping better time with Aziraphale's own thrusts. Each movement brushed against his prostate, and it didn't take long for Crowley to cry out and spasm around Aziraphale. His knees pressed tightly into the angel’s sides and arse gripping at Aziraphale’s cock with every shudder of his orgasm ripping through his body like lightning strike. Aziraphale came almost immediately after, spilling himself into Crowley, leaving the demon looking debauched and thoroughly fucked out.

It took some time for their ragged panting to calm. Aziraphale turned to press soft kisses to Crowley’s jaw, murmuring gentle thanks against his skin for being so good for him and all sorts of other rot that Crowley would never admit to liking.

“Anytime, Angel,” Crowley murmured hoarsely, slipping off of Aziraphale and leaning up on his elbows to get a better look at them. His vest and shirt were covered in his cum, as were his and Aziraphale’s hands where they were still wrapped around his cock. He was definitely leaking now if he hadn’t been before, lube and angel cum falling out of him liberally as soon as Aziraphale slipped out of him. Without another thought he pulled his hand from under Aziraphale’s, letting go of his prick and snapping his fingers wetly to clean the both of them up (mainly himself because he did  _ not _ fancy walking out of here  _ dripping _ and then driving back to the shop like that).

“Love you,” He mumbled quietly, pulling himself up to press soft kiss to Aziraphale’s lips, which was enthusiastically returned. 

They both got up, put themselves to rights, and slipped out of the pub, hand in hand with nary another look around. Crowley opened the door to the Bentley for Aziraphale, kissed the back of his hand gently, and swung ‘round to the driver’s side to take them back home, where they both belonged.

* * *

“Well, at least they're having fun, those odd ducks.” The bartender rolled her eyes fondly at the pair, Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley, as they left together nearly 30 minutes after they’d gotten up from the bar holding hands. “But they tip well… Mr. Crowley will probably come back tomorrow for his card,” she murmured to herself and notified a server to take care of the dishes. The place might be new, but no one worked in Soho for longer than a few weeks before meeting the two and becoming well acquainted. Both “eternal bachelors” who had obviously never learned how to cook, they guessed. No one could tell what Crowley did to pay for everything, since Mr. A. Z. Fell had never once sold a book in his life, they were all sure.


End file.
